


Off to the Races

by scarletjuliet



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crossdressing, Feminization, Infidelity, Inspired by the Lana Del Rey song of the same name, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Sexual Content, Smoking, a little bit of implied internalized homophobia, everything is implied it's all just very vaguely written tbh, implied period-typical homophobia, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjuliet/pseuds/scarletjuliet
Summary: Lipstick on the bed sheets. Hairpins lost in a blond mess. Roger peering out the open window, ciggie between index and middle fingers, in boxer shorts and a cream white bra with one strap slipping.He may long for an epic love story, but instead Roger reaches for another cigarette and watches from where Brian holds him, at arms length.





	Off to the Races

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TS01UmsnFKs) Lana Del Rey song. I haven't written anything that wasn't for school in forever, much less fanfic, so be kind as I may be very rusty! (Plus, this has not been beta'd.)

.

 

Roger may have lost the element of surprise with the unskilled flailing he deems to be _pretty much swimming_ , but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing Freddie’s still dry shoulders and pushing him down under the water. Freddie lets out an undignified yelp at the shock of the cold, and Roger bursts out laughing.

 

When Freddie surfaces, hair now wet and plastered to his head, he splutters and spits. He’s laughing even as he furiously wipes his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “Oi, you fucker, get back here!”

 

Roger is already kicking wildly away from the other, cackling. In part because John is silently sidling up behind Freddie, rash shirt billowing in the water. The shriek and splashing that ensues when John jabs his fingers into Freddie’s sides has Roger falling into fits of laughter again. He struggles to stay afloat, limbs flailing, but as he gets further away and the ruckus grows more distant he calms himself.

 

Soon he is floating alone, starfished. The warm water laps against his face until he chooses to submit to it, pulling in his limbs and gently sinking under. He can’t see a bloody thing, but the muffled, noiseless chamber is pleasant. He can hear bubbles swirling, but not Freddie and John’s laughter.

 

He’s down there for long enough that when he surfaces he gasps for air, running his hands over his face and pushing his soaked and heavy hair back. When finally the water is gone from his eyes once more, the first thing he sees is Brian. Brian sits on the side of the pool in a chair that should have him recline, but instead he’s sitting upright, champagne glass in one hand. He hadn’t been interested in the idea of swimming, not today anyway.

 

Roger would have flashed him a grin and waved, but he spends too long trying to decipher the expression on Brian’s face. He looks confused? Concerned? Brian’s eyes are clearly locked with his and Roger’s pretty sure it’s the most awkward moment of his life. Finally Brian breaks his gaze as if from a trance, blinking, and tips the glass to down the champagne in one swallow. Roger takes the opportunity to starfish again, floating on his back so he doesn’t have to look at the poolside. His mind races with a dozen ridiculous and self-indulgent theories. The jab in his side is so unexpected he screams and rolls over in surprise.

 

John is grinning and Freddie is fucking _giggling_. Wankers. Roger splashes them both and, pretending to be angry, announces that he needs to go for a piss.

 

“By measure of your shrieking, I would have guessed you already had,” Freddie quips.

 

“Fuck off,” Roger grins as he pulls himself out of the water. His swimming shorts are wet and heavy and water cascades out of them. Grimacing, he makes his way over to where the towels sit by Brian, grabbing one and beginning to dry his hair. He glances over at Brian, but Brian is looking elsewhere, seemingly towards John and Freddie’s antics. Roger wraps the towel around his waist and heads back inside the hotel.

 

Back in his room, Roger can hear footsteps coming down the hall. He pauses on his way out of his en suite when they stop outside his door. Waiting for a knock or a voice, he is surprised when the footsteps eventually continue—not even past his room, but back the way they came. He hurries over and opens the door out of curiosity, peering around in the direction of their departure.

 

It’s Brian’s swift gait he has been hearing, and Roger instinctively calls out to him, “Oi, did you need me?” Brian stops in his tracks, shoulders hunching slightly, and swivels around to where Roger is standing.

 

“Uh, not really,” he stammers, closing the few metres of distance he’d put between himself and Roger’s door, “I just wanted to…”

 

There is silence for a while. Roger is uncomfortable but hopeful, and chooses to express this in the most appropriate way he can think of: “…you okay?”

 

When Brian rushes to tell Roger of course he is, Roger decides the only way to restore some semblance of normality to their interaction is to invite Brian inside. Somehow standing in the hallway is making the whole thing increasingly uneasy. Besides which, the desperate hope is still there.

 

(Roger can’t help but remember that it’s not the first time Brian has looked at him like that.)

 

When he closes the door it’s actually even weirder. The distance between them is so small now and suddenly Roger’s heart is pounding loud enough that he’s absolutely certain Brian can hear it. He stares at Brian’s mouth because he can’t meet his eyes. He pretends he doesn’t wish he could touch him.

 

But he also doesn’t move when Brian presses their lips together softly.

 

Not the first time, anyway. The second time Roger registers what’s happening, the warmth of Brian, the tentative hand on his waist, and he pushes back against him. Tilts his head so that their lips slot together easier, slick sliding past each other. Heat rushes over him and it’s so dizzying that he practically gulps in air when Brian pulls away.

 

Each time this happens, Roger’s more shocked than he was the last time, when he thought it would never ever happen again. He’s sure he looks crazed, eyes wide as he stares at Brian’s lips. They begin to move and Roger tunes in to hear Brian say, “You’ve got, uh. Very nice hips, did you know, Rog.”

 

Roger isn’t sure how to speak anymore so he can’t tell him _No, I didn’t_ , and instead opts to kiss him again. And again. And again, until he shakes from it.

 

.

 

The air thrums, orange like booze or old pennies. Roger lights his second cigarette and pushes himself out of his seat. Lets his hips swivel from side to side just slightly as he makes his way through the crowd. Smoke unfurls from his soft lips.

 

He feels like sex. He knows he’s wanted. God, he loves all their eyes on him.

 

But there’s only one person whose eyes he wants right now. Brian May comes into view, sitting at a table, bringing a pint to his lips. Roger curses that he has company—John sits beside him, tapping the glass of his own drink idly. Not that he doesn’t truly love John, because he does. But there are sensitive sentiments bubbling in his throat, his blood is tequila, his cheeks blossom pink. (And under his unsuspicious jeans… well.)

 

So maybe it’s the alcohol that rolls off his tongue when he lowers himself into an empty seat, elbows on the table, and drawls, “Bri, baby…” Or maybe it’s the black panties that he cannot forget he is wearing because every time they touch his skin his heart beats faster and when he moves they rub surreptitiously. Roger knows exactly how they look on him. They’re lacy, just like Brian likes them, because Roger knows how much Brian likes him to look like a girl, and shit does Roger know he can do better than any girl ever could. He slouches slightly, tilting his head back, taking another drag from his cigarette.

 

He hopes he looks flirty. God, how he wishes Brian would just take him.

 

But the expression on Brian’s face is unpromising. His eyes had widened at the pet name but he’d kept his cool so as to not arouse John’s suspicion. Now, he speaks in a tone so utterly done with Roger’s shit that Roger can barely hope he’s acting. “What do you want, Rog?”

 

Roger blinks. “To dance,” he suggests, watching the smoke rise. “D’ya wanna dance, Bri?”

 

“Not particularly, no.” Brian tells him, and John quietly stands to leave. Roger doesn’t think he’s suddenly figured out _why_ he and Brian need privacy right now, rather has just determined that the mood is off and figures leaving the situation is the right move. Brian clearly hasn’t come to the same conclusion though when he flashes Roger an angry look.

 

“Why not?” Roger flutters his eyelashes at him in response, and then in a much lower voice, “Bri, I’m so fucking horny right now. Please.”

 

Brian frowns and then leans forward to ask in a similar mutter, “Are you wearing…?” He trails off. He’s embarrassed, and Roger smiles wickedly.

 

“Bri,” he elongates the word, whining, now speaking at a normal volume, “please come dance with me.” Leans forward too. Brian’s face is red and his pupils are blown and Roger wants nothing more than to slide into his lap, let Brian taste the alcohol and nicotine in his mouth.

 

Instead, Brian just speaks quietly, “Roger, you can’t act like that around John. Or any of these people for that matter.”

 

Roger just stares at him for a long while. When Brian offers nothing more than that, he clenches his teeth before letting out an irritated sigh. Rises from his seat and saunters away. He hopes Brian imagines the panties on his departing form, cupping his arse in spidery black florets.

 

The panties are the real obstacle, actually. He can’t fuck any of the women at the bar because to be perfectly honest he’s not sure he’s comfortable with them seeing him in it. He’s only really a girl for Brian. Nevertheless he flirts, because he loves their eyes and their coy smiles and the way he can almost feel Brian growing dark, jealous, somewhere behind him.

 

Brian’s eyes do thunder when he taps Roger on the shoulder later, leaning towards him and telling him firmly that it’s time to go now. And Roger’s spit lightening when in his room later Brian licks him through black lace and organza and he trembles, like a mess, he’s coming undone.

 

.

 

God, his hands are shaky. Roger curses, softly, lifting his pinkie finger up to wipe away what he’s unintentionally overdrawn. Once he’s corrected himself he takes a moment to pause, examining his cupid’s bow at length. Its gentle valley is sticky and red, red like the packet of Marlboro’s sitting in the next room. Pressing his lips together, swallowing, he sets down the lipstick. Checks his hands briefly before smoothing down his dress. It’s red too, swishy and slightly translucent and cut above the knee. He’s not upset that the black lace bra is just visible through it.

 

Roger’s done this a couple of times before but the mascara is still tricky. He kind of likes watching how his vermilion mouth parts as he applies it, though, likes it enough that lash blunders are inevitable. Taking care of it with again his pinkie finger, Roger blinks, carefully studying his framed baby blues, his swollen chocolate-chip pupils. The light is low and golden-syrup heavy.

 

He is suddenly all too aware there is someone in the doorway. But he knows who it is and he doesn’t want to turn around yet.

 

Roger tries to keep his breathing even as he attempts grace, crouching to take a stiletto in one hand and slide his right foot inside. Once the left one is in he stands up again—perhaps too quickly, because the heels make him wobble and grab onto the basin. He listens for even just a breath of laughter from his unannounced audience but there is nothing. He resists the urge to take his scarlet bottom lip between his teeth.

 

Now he hasn’t much left to do, but he still doesn’t want to turn around. He busies himself with superfluous tweaking of his hair. It’d not been too hard to style it more femininely. He likes the way it frames his face but he pretends he doesn’t quite, rearranging the wavy sections, pushing bits behind his ears and pulling them back again—

 

The big, warm hand on his waist makes his breath catch. Gently, he is turned and pushed until he is leaning against the basin.

 

Brian’s pupils are wide like eclipsed planets. Breathing shallow. His hands are both on Roger now and he can feel them migrating towards black lace. Ridiculously, Roger thinks, _oh god does he like it?_ —before Marlboro red is smearing between them, Brian’s lips blooming with conspicuous waxy blush. Hungrily, Roger slides his tongue between them and Brian lets out a tiny noise of appreciation that makes Roger begin to sway again in his stiletto heels. He need not worry, as Brian is quick to heave him up onto the basin. Makeup products scatter and roll across the bathroom floor. Brian stands between Roger’s legs.

 

His lips probably look absolutely battered, carmine smudged all over, his handiwork ruined. He’s not upset though because it was simply the plan all along. Roger makes himself pretty so he can be destroyed. He needs to.

 

It’s why he moans when Brian’s hands push his skirts up his thighs. Why he hooks his legs around Brian’s when their lips crash together once again. Why, when Brian licks a trail down his neck, he leans back to hit the mirror so hard his head spins.

 

When they part, Roger hopes sucking on his bottom lip looks coquettish and not desperate. But he need not ask, _“will you fuck me?”_ That was the job of the stilettos.

 

.

 

 

He’s fucking unlaced, he thinks, swaying amidst the pulsing bodies. Making eyes. Shirt missing a top button. He feels red, red like he feels when he wears lace for Brian, red like tongues and like lipstick.

 

Roger wants nothing more than to be taken tonight. There’s a warm buzz in his brain. It makes him sluggish, dizzy and giggly. He’s not really up to stringing together as many coherent sentences as he’d normally like to use to pick up a woman, but it doesn’t really matter. The women all think he’s gorgeous. Roger thinks they’re all not quite Brian.

 

[Brian has lovely hands, Roger thinks, as they trail their feathery way up his thighs. Pushing the lacy pink slip up to sit above his hips. Roger moans. His hair is in ribbons. His resolve is in shreds.]

 

Nevertheless, he loves to woo. He’s a rock star, after all. He picks someone pretty to move about next to, and they converse in demure smiles and little touches. Soon her breasts are soft against him. She smells sweet and like booze.

 

[When Brian kisses him, gentle but firm, Roger can’t help but look up at him and, in his smallest voice, complain, “Bri, my lip gloss.” In response Brian takes his waist in a steady grip and pulls Roger roughly towards him. Roger’s legs spread instinctively. Each of his breaths shakes upon exhale.]

 

It’s ridiculous, really. Roger only truly wants Brian right now. But Brian is somewhere else in the hazy room and they generally don’t sex after parties or in bars or within a mile radius of any other sentient creature and _god fucking dammit_ if Roger doesn’t get a bit frustrated sometimes by all the bloody rules. The woman he’s dancing with is rather taken with him, he thinks, moving closer to slur in her ear.

 

[Roger pants when Brian drags his index fingers in small, lazy circles around his nipples, pants faster and faster until he moans from the stimulation. Then Brian’s migrating downwards to kiss his belly, his hips, and inwards. Finally, he buries his nose in lace and warmth. Roger can’t make himself stop whining, duvet clenched in his fingers. “You okay there, princess?” Brian asks, in a voice so low and syrupy that Roger can’t help but jerk his hips forward.]

 

Besides which, he’s a slut. He knows it and hell, maybe he even likes it. He knows he smokes too much and drinks too much and has altogether too much sex with strangers to be good for his emotional health, but there’s something he likes about the way people watch him. What they must think of him. What _Brian_ must think of him, drunk and swaying and begging to be kissed. He asks if he can buy the woman a drink.

 

[Brian tells Roger he’s a good girl. Tells him he’s the most beautiful thing the universe has ever created. Ghosts his hands on the insides of Roger’s thighs.]

 

She tells him yes, and they make their way to the bar.

 

[There are at least five lit candles within Roger’s line of sight and the room smells ludicrous, like vanilla and a dozen different flowers. But Brian likes it best this way and although he’d anticipated that the scent would be sickening Roger has to admit he kind of likes it too. Mostly just because he’s splayed across a king-sized plush white duvet, because he’s shaved his legs and is all dolled up in his best sexual finery. And because his pink panties are dark with Brian’s saliva and even just the thought of it makes him writhe and then Brian slides his hand over Roger’s arse only for his head to shoot up in surprise when he realises that Roger’s prepared for him. Dripping for him.]

 

Roger’s a rich man. He can buy more than one woman a drink. He’s not entirely sure when or why the second one appeared, but they’re both beautiful and they’re all drunk and he lights another cigarette.

 

[“Bri, baby, will you kiss me?” Roger asks quietly. He waits until Brian’s face is hovering over his, and smiles, kittenish. Brian takes one of Roger’s hair ribbons and pulls gently until it unravels. And then their lips meet and Brian’s fingers slide into Roger’s prepared slickness and Roger unravels just the same.]

 

He thinks one of the ladies is licking his neck, slow and warm, when Brian shows up in Roger’s line of sight. His expression is murderous but Roger’s so drunk he actually just wants to giggle. There is a thrill in the way Brian’s eyes make their way over the scene, how dishevelled he is, how _wanted_ he is.

 

_Don’t you want me too, Bri? Want me proper?_

 

[The moment when Brian pauses, all the way inside him, the moment of stillness where they just lie there, hearts beating, breathing shallow, warmth pulsating around them like they are organismically one—that is Roger’s favourite moment in the world. Even if the candles are beginning to smell a bit nauseating.]

 

Suddenly, Roger doesn’t want to laugh. He just wants to cry.

 

.

 

 

Roger knows the exact amount of times he’s fallen asleep in Brian’s arms, but he refuses to recall this number even in the safety of his own mind. He doesn’t know how many times he’s _slept_ with Brian per se, because the lines get blurred, but it doesn’t really matter because truthfully Roger thinks that when the rush of sex is over this could be his favourite part.

 

Brian is so very warm and Roger feels heavy against him. The heat is throbbing where their bare skin touches. Brian is asleep but Roger is wide-awake, pressed into him, one arm thrown over the other man’s chest. He thinks that maybe the way they lie there, pulsating in the quiet and darkness, might be somehow divine. Roger doesn’t worship a god but he thinks that maybe there is a higher power in their skin-on-skin, their overwarmth, the stillness of the entangled 2am.

 

Sometimes, Roger thinks daft things when he’s lying awake here with Brian. Usually things about how maybe he’d like to spend every night for the rest of forever like this, how maybe he’s found something he didn’t realise he was searching for his whole life. But then—and thank fuck—he usually loses his train of thought in the low and steady lull of Brian’s inhale and exhale.

 

Roger’s still wearing thigh-highs and when he rubs his eyes his fingers come away smeared black with mascara. Lazily, he stretches, entertaining the thought of getting up to wash his face before sleep finally takes him, but it’s honestly too much effort. Besides which, he’s pretty sure Brian enjoys waking up to see this sort of evidence of the night before. Lipstick on the bed sheets. Hairpins lost in a blond mess. Roger peering out the open window, ciggie between index and middle fingers, in boxer shorts and a cream white bra with one strap slipping.

 

He knows he looks like a lady in satin and blush and lip gloss, and he revels in how Brian reveres him like this. Drinks in the pretty words Brian offers him. Wants to bottle the electricity between their lips.

 

(But sometimes, in this quiet space between orgasm and morning, Roger feels a little bit ill and doesn’t know why.)

 

Sometimes he asks himself what he truly wants, and this question is among the daftest of the things Roger thinks in these moments. The answer, if Roger comes up with one, is usually that he wants everything and everybody. Or, for one more hour before sunrise.

 

(The number of times he has fallen asleep in Brian’s arms is fifty-three.) Brian stirs; he’s waking.

 

.

 

 

Their table is not very well lit and in the back corner and he is sitting so he does not face the other patrons, but the tension in Roger’s body is still there, vibrating just below the surface. Maybe it’s silly because Roger knows he doesn’t look anything but like a woman in the little glittery black number and the pink kitten heels and all dolled up in the face. He pushes a curl behind his ear and meets Brian’s eyes across the table. Or maybe it’s not silly because he knows full well if anyone suspects a thing he could die tonight—in this restaurant, in a bar, out in the street teetering on two inches.

 

But then Brian smiles at him shyly and Roger’s heart thrums with the thrill and he thinks of how fucking crazy he is for this man. Or just how fucking crazy he is.

 

He wonders if he would ever do this for anyone else. They speak in low voices over their meal, and Brian’s eyes flash amber in the light. It may be because the scheme had been all his idea, but Roger can’t help but feel like he might have something to prove.

 

[He doesn’t feel himself swinging the door but he does hear it slamming. Things that are hung on the wall tremble.]

 

As they make their way out of the restaurant, Brian rests a hand on the small of Roger’s back, and Roger feels the glow of warmth rush over him until he’s giddy with it. Once outside, with the slicing chill of the night air on their faces, Brian moves to grasp Roger’s hand.

 

Roger leans up to press his cheek into Brian’s shoulder, a sort of breathy, incredulous spurt of laughter escaping him. Brian just grips him tighter while the wind tousles their hair, back and forth.

 

[Roger thinks there might be thunder in his arms. They burn, his heartbeat racing, like he’s gripping impossibly tight onto something. He picks up a stiletto from beside his bed and hurls it at the wall so hard the heel leaves a small dent.]

 

Once they’re at the club Roger is not allowed to speak. His voice will give him away instantly. Instead he busies himself clinging onto Brian, gripping his arms, his narrow waist, examining Brian’s fingers between his. He still manages to stay pretty quiet when the alcohol hits him, but he’s so giggly it’s almost on the right side of ridiculous.

 

It’s okay because Brian’s pretty tipsy too and when Roger’s laughter becomes uncontrollable he leans over and presses a hard, feverish kiss to Roger’s mouth. It’s so silly and Roger has never wanted to live his life like bad poetry, but everything falls away upon the contact. He can’t hear the people around them, the music is muffled—he can only feel the warmth of Brian’s mouth and his hand gently stroking Roger’s cheek. Oh, it’s fucking daft that when Brian pulls away Roger’s eyes are half lidded, plastic lashes dipping, and he leans in to kiss him again because he never wants the feeling to end.

 

There are people around and Brian’s pushing a strand of hair behind Roger’s ear and his eyes are warm and watery and Roger, drunk on everything, dares to think that maybe, he might be in l

 

[Roger yells, picking up the other stiletto and throwing that one too. He yells and yells and yells until he chokes on himself. Sits on his bed. He feels something deep inside his chest shutting down.]

 

The paranoia sets in pretty soon. They’ve only been there for an hour before Brian is glancing around worriedly, searching the faces of the people around them for any sign of suspicion. Roger is acutely aware that even though he looks like a woman, he sure as hell doesn’t behave like one, and though he tries to feminise his mannerisms it’s hard work and he’s getting a bit too drunk for it.

 

Brian leans over to kiss him on the cheek, before pulling away just slightly to whisper in Roger’s ear. He tells him there’s a man a few metres away who has been watching them for just over a minute. Roger’s heartbeat quickens.

 

[He tells himself over and over again that he already knew. He knew Brian was going to find a real woman eventually. That a man in dress-up could only ever be a temporary substitute. He knew all this. He doesn’t know why he’s crying.]

 

They’re running and running and Roger’s heels _clack clack clack_ on the pavement. They have no pursuer per se—they just run. Roger’s stumbling but he is also laughing. Brian’s hand is in his and the city lights stretch up around them, blinking and glittering. Roger wonders if they own the universe. He feels like they’re on stage in front of thousands but he knows they’re not when Brian stops in his tracks and grasps Roger by the waist.

 

Roger’s never felt more drunk when Brian presses their chests together and spins. The dress sparkles as it tumbles and tumbles. It’s ludicrous but Roger is grinning so wide and his chest hurts so much and _fucking_ _tears_ are pooling in his eyes.

 

[The tears are ugly. Roger coughs and chokes and heaves and sobs. He’s not sure he can feel the bed he’s sitting on anymore. It’s all fallen away.]

 

Roger stares up at Brian when he sets him down, baby blues and teeth chattering like a muttering glossolalia. That’s when Brian takes him in big hands and dips him, like they really are on a stage. The performance is bewitching. Roger drapes his wrists about Brian’s neck and their lips meet, shaky and perfect. There are witnesses. Roger feels like art.

 

[Roger feels like he’s shattering. There’s nothing for it. He wipes his eyes and prepares to pick up the pieces, and prays for one hundred hours before tomorrow’s sunrise.]

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get rid of the nagging feeling that I've taken the idea that Roger "wants everything and everybody" from another fic... if it's yours then let me know and I'll change it! Otherwise, thanks for reading. :)


End file.
